Playing in the Flames

A story about passion and music amidst the pain of a concentration camp...I wrote this in eighth grade, and it ended up winning something grand in a Georgia Young Author's Competition that year; however, now that I look back upon this piece it doesn't seem as good as I had once held it up to be. (And now I also notice the tension in some of my tense agreements...eek!)I even considered changing some of what I had written to perhaps elevate the language, or maybe to embroider more into the story. I decided against it, and it is here, nonetheless, as a commemoration to my childhood and the earliest trickles of my love for writing.

Submitted:Sep 26, 2008
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Thick, rich melody fell upon my ears as the fire
hissed and illuminated every movement of my fingers. The keys
flashed and shone like pearls. White, black, white, black; my
favorite colors were reflected under my very fingers and in the
sheets of music that fell at my feet. This piece was inscribed
into my memory. My hands were in fervor. They pounded the keys
and glided up and down the length of the piano. The flames in the
fire place and on each candle of the menorah blazed. All the
while, my fingers danced and danced. This was where I was happy.

My eyes flew open. It was a dream, after all; only a
dream, and always a dream. Outside, the darkness of night was
still unbroken. All the other women and children in the cramped,
dusty room were still wrapped in slumber. Some slept fitfully,
beset with evil dreams, but most slept sprawled wearily upon the
filthy cots. The cruel and heavy labors of the day had wasted
them. Soon, I knew, all would be brutally awakened.

In the sky, the moon was just beginning to retire. As its edges
faded into the blue of the heavens, my strength seemed to fade as
well. Inside my legs and arms, thousands of needles were pricking
me. I could see by the misty air others exhaled that bitter
weather was in store for today. Yet, my body was burning. I
longed for something to cool my fiery skin.

My mother beside me was stirring. When I turned to look at her,
her face held a troubled look. She placed one hand on my
forehead, and the other on hers.

"Abbie," she said, "It seems you have a fever." Her words turned
my heart as cold as the frost on the ground. I could not work
when I had a fever! What would the German soldiers say? Even
worse, what would they do to me? My whole being filled with
foreboding as I recollected the rumors of the murdering of sick
Jews. Mother seemed to read my expression.

"Do not worry, Abbie. I will figure something out." Then, all too
soon, a tall, blonde German woman barged into the room, signaling
all the Jews to rise for the day. One by one, each eye upon every
pallid face blinked open and gazed warily at the German as she
barked orders. Everyday commenced like this one. Even upon
awakening, commands stuffed the ears of each Jew. How I wished to
fill them with something else, something so much sweeter.
Suddenly, my own Mother's voice broke through my thoughts.

"My daughter…She does not feel well today. I beg
permission for her to do lighter labor." The German officer cast
a look of disgust upon Mother's face. Then, she smiled. It was
not a heartwarming, loving, happy smile. Instead, all of these
much appreciated qualities were substituted with hatred and
loathing. A sneer crept into her face and antipathy accented her
every feature.

"How much do you love your daughter?" she asked
Mother after taking a glance at me. Mother was taken aback.

"W-well," she stuttered. "I would do anything for
her." I could sense the bewilderment of the others in the room at
Mother's courage. I was proud, but more than anything, I was
scared. I had lost everyone else. She was all I had left.

All of a sudden, the German slapped Mother upon the
face and struck her frail, bony back. Nothing had ever hurt me so
much as that.

"I'll grant you permission if you're willing to take
more of that," laughed the officer. So this was what she had in
mind, what she hinted with her malicious grin. I tried to speak
out, to shake my head, but my whole body was numb, and my throat
so dry. Silently, I begged Mother not to do something like this.
Silently, I cursed the German officer. Nothing worked, for Mother
silently nodded her head. I felt as if darkness enveloped me. I
turned away my watery eyes from the sight, but my pitch-perfected
musician's ears still heard the slap of blow. It twisted my mind
in agony and sent tears silently running down my cheeks.
Silently, yet again. The officer ceased striking Mother, and
suddenly, my already burning body boiled with anger. I was mad at
the officer, but I was furious with myself, and with every other
Jew. Why were we always silent, never standing up for anything as
Mother had done? Mother looked upon me with her pale, weary face
and smiled; a real smile. I felt absolutely wretched.

Because of Mother's sacrifice, I was sent to wait
upon German military officials in a gloomy restaurant that
overlooked our concentration camp. As I was alone, I recalled my
dream earlier. This one particular dream had recurred over and
over again while I was at the camp, but last night was the most
vivid it had ever been. This dream of my music both blessed and
plagued me at the same time because it wasn't just a night time
reverie. It was the truth; it was a memory. That night had been
the last night of Hanukkah, the last night of my life. I had been
playing the piano before a small audience made up of my family
when there came a harsh knocking upon our door. Father went to
unbolt the door and see who would visit at such a late hour.
Burly German men had stomped in with their heavy dirt-covered
boots. They had taken Father and my little sister Elsa away. What
happened to them I know not, and sometimes I think it may be
better that I don't know. What I do know, though, is that I would
do anything to be a family again. The dream, it blesses me by
providing a small ray of happiness every night through sweet
reminiscence. It plagues me by making me dare not to sleep again,
for fear of witnessing another time the ripping apart of my
family. It harasses me and distresses my mind, for I know that
the laughing, shining expressions beside the menorah are no
longer real, and that this bleak torture I persevere through
everyday is.

As if accompanying my thoughts, the swift notes of a
piano floated through the air. I followed my ears to the
instrument. Sitting at the piano bench was a girl maybe just a
little bit younger than me. As she hit each note, her blonde
curls bounced up and down. She played well, but with no emotion.
Her notes were dull and unmoving as her blue eyes stared at the
music. I'm scared, but the piano is my greatest temptation. My
fingers were itching to touch the cool, wooden keys. My feet were
jumping to touch the metal pedals. I could stand it no longer, so
I took a seat next to the German girl. She was startled and
looked frightened but I hardly paid any notice. Instead, all my
attention was diverted to my fingers, to my ears, to my music.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl leave, but I didn't
stop playing. Minutes later, I perceived that people were leaving
the building. I did not know why, but it was not my business to
know either. Then, the reason hit me as flames sprouted up all
around the room. They licked the wooden tables and chairs, and
dashed across the wooden floor. There was no way out, but I
didn't mind so much. I had my piano. My fingers had access to all
eighty-two keys and my feet could touch all three pedals.

Thick, rich melody fell upon my ears as the fire
hissed and illuminated every movement of my fingers. The keys
flashed and shone like pearls. White, black, white, black; my
favorite colors were reflected under my very fingers and in the
sheet of music that burned at my feet. My hands were in fervor.
They pounded the keys and glided up and down the length of the
piano. While flames devoured, my fingers danced and danced.